Love of a Sociopath
by CryingAlice
Summary: Sherlock ponders on John and his love for him. John mostly puts up with it and him...  Just random thoughts I had at the end of The Great Game, not really original, I know. Only it is, for me, 'cause this is my first fic in English.
1. The Great Game : Epilogue

Warning : this is my first fic in English, it is unbetated, and while I understand spoken and written English, I am not really good at writing it myself (especially the grammar part), so beware…

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_**Love of a Sociopath

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**_

The tall man was looking through the window at the pale form on the bed. The bips of the machines tied to the limp body cut through the wall of silence of this hospital aisle.

Sherlock Holmes was not an emotional man. In fact, he was the complete opposite. Yet, he remembered clearly the too brief burst of joy, both of them safe from Moriarty, a fleeting moment in time when he wouldn't have minded laughing until his stomach hurt. It was there, on both of their faces, the relief, the sheer feeling of being alive…

And then, Moriarty came back. He tried to shoot at the vest full of bomb, knowing full well he would be condemning John and himself to death, but it was nothing more than a decoy. The bombs were fake. He was still annoyed by the fact that he hadn't seen that one coming. Oh, how Moriarty had laughed!

And then he gave the order to shoot.

John went down, a bullet embed in his side. Sherlock was on his knees in an instant, putting pressure on the wound to try and slow down the bleeding.

Moriarty smiled and… left. Of course, it may have something to do with Mycroft's men bursting all over the place like knights in shining suits. Anyways, he was gone, just like that, leaving John barely alive, and Sherlock with his hands full of blood.

He could recognize a warning when he saw one. And he knew that this, this was the very reason why Jim Moriarty had the upper hand, and always would. The same reason that was now lying in this bed.

If he had thought, for one minute, that leaving John would keep him safe from Moriarty, he would have emptied the Baker Street Flat at once and moved out of John's life forever. However, close or far, the simple fact that somewhere lived a certain John Watson was enough to put him in danger.

Because Sherlock loved him.

He was Sherlock Holmes' only real weakness, the one he wasn't ready to sacrifice. And Moriarty knew it, and he knew that Sherlock knew. Moriarty was a true sociopath, way beyond intelligent an devoid of sentimental attachments and empathy. Sherlock was every bit as intelligent. However, devoid of feelings he was not.

And now John was part of Moriarty's game. And that was exactly what it was. A game. He held no illusion that Moriarty would stay away, even if Sherlock were to, indeed, back off (which, for the record, he would never do). Moriarty enjoyed him too much. If not, he would be dead already.

He would stay by John's side. John was his, after all. His to love, his to protect. Just… his. John would always be his sidekick, ready to jump after him. He was a soldier, and he was bored, just like Sherlock, if for different reasons. He loved the doctor completely, exclusively, with an absolute focus. So John was his. What other people might have called monomania or excessive possessiveness seemed pretty normal to him. After all, other people had fleeting passions, sordid relationships or just plain boring ones. He had so much more.

"How is he ?"

He had barely registered Sarah. She was so… common. So dull. He didn't care if she went out with John, if from time to time he slept with her, as long as his flatmate remained just that. His flatmate. It wouldn't do for John to leave their home. John was his companion. She was nothing.

In the end, it didn't matter. John would always come back to him. He was sure of that.

It never even occurred to him that John Watson might see things a different way.

"He was badly wounded, the bullet embedded itself near his liver. Nevertheless, he will live."

She smiled, but he hardly noticed. Her poorly matched jewelry and the state of her shoes told him she left her home in a hurry this morning, and the slight disheveled hair, that she overslept. She learned about John during lunch-break, as said the receipt in her pocket, a first course, no main course. She came straight here, her own car, the mark on her coat quite evident, and here she was. Beyond that, she was of little interest to him.

"You don't seem very worried…"

Her tone was tentative. He smirked, irritated.

"Worry is irrelevant. He will get better whether I worry or not."

She looked shocked.

"He got shot at !"

"Yesss. That, at least, is obvious."

He turned on his heels and left her there, hanging. He had sensed a presence. He always knew when Mycroft was in the vicinity. His level of annoyance invariably went up two levels higher. He was there, of course, talking with one of the doctor, his brunet assistant by his side, typing on her blackberry as if her life depended on it.

"Mycroft, what a pleasure." His voice was dripping with sarcasm.

"Sherlock." Mycroft acknowledged, before thanking the doctor.

He then smiled at his younger brother.

"We found the memory stick in the pool. How interesting, isn't it, that we happened to find it there, when poor West's murderer lived all the way across town…?"

"Fascinating. Don't you have other things to do ? Important things ? Starting a war, maybe ?"

"I believe I'm fighting one right now. Who is he, Sherlock ?"

No way. He wouldn't let Mycroft get involved. Moriarty was his problem. His. And John's.

"If you want to protect John Watson, you'd better tell me."

Mycroft always knew what he was thinking. It was extremely irksome.

"John hardly needs my protection."

His big brother sighed that special way, when he thought that Sherlock was being childish. More so than usual that is.

"Sherlock, I have the whole of the intelligence services in my hand. You could use that. Keep you safe."

He looked over at John's room.

"Keep him safe."

"I will manage on my own, thank you."

Mycroft frowned before sighing again.

"Of course, you will. Call mummy, she worries."

_Mum always worries_, he wanted to say, but didn't. He left Mycroft without as much as a good-bye to return to his post by John's door. Sarah had entered the room and she was holding John's hand. So ordinary. Boring.

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"How are you ?" Was the first sentence out of Watson's mouth when he saw Holmes shortly after waking up.

It was touching, how his health mattered to the doctor. Stupid, of course, because, obviously, he was all right, but touching all the same. He smiled and went to stand beside the bed.

"Fine, fine… Mycroft is annoying as per usual."

"Must run in the family."John's voice was tired, his words a bit slurred, his eyes just this side of listless.

"Actually, no. My father was a very quiet man. Although his outbursts of anger were quite legendary."

"Oh dear. Another well adjusted Holmes. How surprising."

"I'm sensing some measure of sarcasm here."

"I don't see what you're talking about"

"Of course you do."

"Yes, I do."

"Right."

"Moriarty ?"

"Gone. But I'll catch him again."

"Of course you will."

Sherlock smiled and brushed back a strand of John's hair. The doctor raised an eyebrow and protested tiredly :

"People might talk."

"They do little else" And so what if his voice was a little strained because he remembered the last time they said those words ? "You had a strand of hair on your face, it was distasteful. And unbecoming of a soldier."

"And _your_ hair is tousled. Have you at least showered since that night ?"

"You know my methods. What do you think?"

"I don't need to think Sherlock, I know you. You haven't eaten or slept or showered, you bloody fool."

"Showers are overrated. I'm fine."

"I'm pretty sure the nurses would disagree. And living from nicotine patches and tea is hardly healthy. Go home, Sherlock, take a shower, eat something. Please. I mean it."

The detective smiled again and nodded.

"Alright."

Of course, he wouldn't go home, but it didn't hurt to lie. John was so gullible. The doctor was too tired, apparently, to continue their conversation. He fell asleep in an instant. Holmes pursed his lips and frowned. It would take time for John to get well again. Time enough for him to start chasing after the world's only consulting criminal.

Keep John safe by taking Moriarty down.

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John Watson looked at his apartment through the taxi window. One month. It had been one month since he last saw the 221B Baker Street. He sighed and immediately regretted it when his side started to burn in response to the movement. He extricated himself from the taxi, and was about to get his suitcase when Mrs. Hudson rushed through the front door to greet him and hug him tight.

"Oh, John ! It's so good to see you up and about ! Here, let me take that!"

She took his case despite his protests and led him inside.

"You should see him. He's been even more insufferable than usual, and he is not eating properly. The flat is a mess. I've told him countless times : "Sherlock, if you want John to stay here, you'll need to make some efforts. God knows how he's managed to put up with you for so long!" And do you think he listens ?"

"I guess not," answered John, good naturally.

It didn't matter to him if Sherlock was dancing naked in their living room or firing a handgun at close range toward their couch or cooking a head in their kitchen. He was too happy to see him again to really care about anything else. After that first visit, he hadn't heard from Sherlock Holmes, apart from a brief phone call to ask him where he put his stethoscope – and why would Sherlock even _need_ his stethoscope when he could get one at the hospital was a mystery – and the daily reports he got from Mrs. Hudson.

"Mrs. Hudson!" A strong, imperious voice called from upstairs.

"Here we go again," she sighed, rather matter-of-factly.

"Let me."

"All right, dear. I'll put that in your bedroom."

He smiled in thanks and started climbing the stairs before entering their living room gingerly. Sherlock wasn't there, even though it looked like the entire Troyan war had taken place between the couch and the desk.

"You've got to stop shouting abuse at our landlady, Sherlock," he called out while taking his jacket off, "one day she might just decide to throw you out and I wouldn't blame her."

"Oh forget the trivia for one moment, would you! And come see, I may have successfully solved this case after all !"

The voice came through the bathroom's closed door. John could hardly wait to see what kind of disaster his flatmate had brought upon the innocent room. Resigned to never being able to shower again, he opened the door.

The room was filled with a heavy, greenish smoke. He took a rapid step back and almost immediately started coughing.

"For God's sake, Sherlock !"

"Hum ? Oh ! Sorry."

The sound of the window opening pierced the smoke and the air slowly started clearing up. Sherlock was in his pajamas, a bottle of…something in one hand and a tube full of another something of a different color in the other.

"She killed him! I knew it!"

John sighed and crossed his arms.

"Yes. I am fine. Thank you."

Sherlock looked at him that special way, like he couldn't quite believe he was being so dumb.

"Well, of course you are. I can see that. You'll have a slight limp for two more weeks and you're on a diet, but on the whole, you're pretty much functional."

John rolled his eyes and turn away. He was about to go and lie down in his room when he felt two arms surrounded him from behind, a chest pressed again his back and Sherlock's breath in his ear.

"I've missed you."

He was still frozen in place when Holmes came back a moment latter, fully closed, putting on his coat.

"Come on, John! Murders to solve, people to arrest, Scotland Yard to ridicule! So many things to do!"

"You hugged me," he said finally, frowning.

Holmes stopped his movement to look at him, apparently bemused.

"I believe I did, yes. What's your point ?"

"Blokes, normal blokes, don't go and hug other blokes out of the blue, Sherlock."

"Really ?" He sounded bored, and somehow that annoyed John more than the rest.

"Yes Sherlock, really! I'm not…" he swallowed, trying to calm himself, " I'm not… We're not…"

Sherlock lifted his eyebrows.

"Yes ?" He prompted, clearly highly amused now.

"We're not lovers."He muttered between clench teeth.

"Not yet."

John looked appalled.

"I thought you were married to your work!"

"I am."

"And ?"

"And I don't mind cheating on it, obviously. Now, are we done ? I have a murderer to take down! And she, contrary to the rest of the world, is very clever! Don't want her to run and hide under Moriarty's shadow!"

One thing was sure. Life with Sherlock was never boring… And with this new development, John feared the future more than ever. However, looking into the bright excited blue eyes, full of a number of somethings he didn't understand, he couldn't bring himself to care.

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_Considering that it's my first fic in English, I just wanted to throw some ideas and sentences that crossed my mind after The Great Game. If this is pleasing to other people I might continue this fic. However, I will then __**need a Beta**__, obviously. If someone is interested, let me know…_


	2. Food Shopping

**Warning** : Okay guys, another chapter. Still French, still struggling with the language, but at least **this time, the lovely Velvet lies helped me and actually accepted to beta this thing (thank you so much!)**

I made some changes since her beta, so it's quite possible that some mistakes remain, all of which are mine. This story has no real plot, it's more about me trying to make sense in English with bits and pieces of Sherlock and John's life together. This part is far less serious than the last one.

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**Thanks for all the nice reviews. I will try and answer to everyone this time around. **

**Love of a Sociopath : Food Shopping !  


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Food shopping, John decided sourly, had been invented in order to alienate one's mind. During his time in the military, dining at the mess with his fellow soldiers or chewing on rations, he couldn't have cared less what he was eating. After his returnfrom Afghanistan, he was so locked up in his own misery that he would eat just about anything he could get his hands on without expending much effort – including some questionable takeaways – without really tasting any of it.

And then… Sherlock happened. It wasn't so much that meeting the detective meant the peak of gastronomic bliss, but it did change his view of a **'**normal**'** meal. Sherlock never went to the _supermarket,_ and if he ate once a day, it was a miracle. He knew what seemed like half of the restaurant managers in London, all of whom felt grateful toward him for some reason or another. He ate at their restaurants for free ("eat" might be an exaggeration, since he seemed keen on contenting himself with coffee or tea most of the time).

Nevertheless, the newfound peace he gained living with Sherlock gave him a corresponding renewed appetite for life_, _and everything in it_. _Sex of course (Sarah could attest to that), having a drink at the pub, walking down the streets of London, going to the movie or to a concert, and food. Delicious, well-cooked, aromatic food. Mrs. Hudson, bless her gentle heart, despite her protests, went to the supermarket for them most of the time. Only, where do you keep your vegetables and meat, when the fridge has a head or some other body parts in it ?

Anyone else would have had it out with Sherlock by now, but John, always practical, knew such an action would have no profits whatsoever. So he decided to simply divide the space in the fridge and try and keep the food in individual sealed boxes.

He was almost done with his convalescence, and all that was left of the bullet he received from Moriarty's mignon was an unpleasant memory and a slight pain in his right side if he twisted too quickly. Mrs. Hudson was visitingan ill friend in Wales. She hadn't wanted to leave him while he was still recovering_ - _and it had taken a lot of persuading to get her to go- but not before she'd tidied the flat. For all the good it did - the minute Sherlock came back from the morgue carrying who-knows-what in a biohazard bag, he burst into a typically childish tamtrum, and spent all afternoon "putting things back where they belong". John had thanked her, though, and assured her that they were perfectly capable of looking after themselves. She left on Wednesday, the boxes in the fridge full of cooked dishes. With Holmes' eating, or rather, non-eating habits, it should have lasted them the two weeks of her trip. But of course, it was _that_ time of the month (yes, John wasn't above such a passive-aggressive sarcasm, he was tired!). And as such, with no reason whatsoever, Holmes suddenly decided that he needed to eat properly, three times a day. Thus, by Monday, the fridge was empty, and he had to go to the supermarket. He had wanted to take Holmes with him, but the world's only consulting detective was, conveniently, nowhere to be found. Two phone calls and three texts later, John had to face the fact that Mr. Sherlock Holmes couldn't be bothered by so trivial a thing as food shopping.

He was in the vegetable section, debating which kind of tomato he should buy_, _when a high pitched "John Watson!" rang in his ear. He looked up to see a tall, willowy blonde with far too much make up and a decidedly fake smile hurrying over to him. He knew her.

"Gerda." He tried to make his greeting convincing. "Hey, it's been a while… hem… How… How have you been ?"

She smiled some more, rather coquettishly.

"Well, very well indeed. I divorced last year, George wasn't doing it for me anymore. Too boring. Not at all like you were." She winked.

They had dated for a while. He was at Uni with her_. _She was sexy, wild, and fascinated his eighteen year old self . It was more about sex than anything, and the sex had been good. Then she'd broken it off for a better prospect, and ended up married to a wealthy older man whose name he'd forgotten. It had happened a long time ago, and looking at her now, he didn't feel any kind of residual attraction. She couldn't hold a candle to Sarah. Kind, strong, funny, naturally beautiful Sarah. He tried to imagine his current sweetheart with that much make-up- he couldn't. And she couldn't compare to Sherlock, either. Nobody could. There was no intense passion, no cold, implacable intelligence in her eyes, nor any pulsing excitement in her stance.

He tried not to dwell on the fact that he had unconsciously put Sherlock and Sarah on the same level of affection/relationship in his mind. Bad enough that his flatmate seemed to think they were fated to become lovers, and that most people around them appeared to agree ! No, he decided quickly, it wasn't like that. Sherlock and Sarah were currently the two most important people in his life. Harry too, of course, but it was different, she was his sister. They were his best friend and lover. It was perfectly normal to think about both of them, he told himself firmly. No attraction toward Sherlock whatsoever.

Never mind that, someone who thinks about Sherlock Holmes as one of the most important people in his life _should be very worried._

Gerda seemed a bit uneasy in front of his long silence, so he asked her if she lived in the area (mainly to be sure never to return to this store if it was so). Thankfully, she said she didn't and that she was just visiting one of her friend for the week.

"But we should definitely catch up sometimes." This she delivered with yet another come -get-me wink.

He didn't know what to say, but he was saved from answering when an all too familiar voice said:

"You definitely shouldn't buy these, John, they were treated with a special kind of mosquito repellent that could kill us as well as the mosquitoes."

He smiled, genuinely this time, and turned to look at Sherlock. The detective was holding one of the tomatoes carefully between his fingertips and studying it as if it was a valuable piece of evidence. Gerda looked over too, and he could see she was very appreciative of Sherlock's male beauty. He felt oddly irritated by that. Nevertheless, his good manners kicked in.

"Gerda, this is my flatmate- Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock, this is an old friend of mine, Gerda Reilly."

Gerda was about to say something, probably some greetings, when Holmes raised an eyebrow disbelievingly.

"Old friend, eh ? Old lover, more likely, John, I believe. One who wouldn't mind giving it another try, despite being married."

Sometimes, you can see catastrophes coming a mile away, with an inexorable certainty, and find yourself incapable of stopping them. It was becoming an discomfortingly familiar sensation.

"Ex…Excuse me ? "

"Your ring. You've just removed it, probably because you saw John, here. Your hands are a dirty, most likely from handling farm-fresh produce, but there's a clean area where your ring was . Moreover, your wallet belongs to a Mrs. Halliday, according to its label. As it is the exact same shade as your bag, I dare say it is yours. If you were recently divorced, as you claim, you would have changed the label, most women do, especially ones as brazen and opinion conscious as you are."

John closed his eyes, torn between mortification and helpless laughter. Gerda opened and closed her mouth twice, before turning an interesting shade of pink and leaving quickly with a mumbled "talk to you later, John". The doctor smiled and turned toward the lanky form of the detective.

"Excellent, Sherlock. Positively charming. Remind me _not_ to introduce you to any more of my friends in the future."

As expected, Sherlock just shrugged uncaringly.

"She wasn't your friend. And you should thank me, I just saved you from an embarrassing discussion about you not wanting to have sex with her ever again. Besides, if people are incapable of _owning to their behaviors, _they shouldn't display them for all the world to see."

"Usually, people don't see them like you do, Sherlock."

An expression half-way between intense irritation and pity crossed the detective's face. John suspected he felt as if people were being especially dumb just to bore him. He shook his head with serene amusement and put back the infamous tomatoes.

"So, you came. I didn't believe you would."

Sherlock waggled his hand dismissively.

"I had nothing else to do. I've just solved Lestrade's last case, a decidedly uninteresting burglary . Suspect left a cable mark on the door frame. It naturally led me straight to him."

_Naturally_, thought John, wryly, _do I even want to ask ?_

"We need some more milk," he said instead, "and perhaps some lamb for tonight's stew."

He stopped dead when he saw the strangely uncomfortable look on Sherlock's face. His friend was seldom uncomfortable about anything.

"We're eating out, tonight."

"We are ?"

"Yes."

"Why ? Do you have a suspect to keep watch on ?"

"No."

Oh yes, now, he was really suspicious. He frowned, trying to decipher his undecipherable friend. Sherlock sighed.

"Are you coming with me, or not ? Might be interesting, more interesting than a dull stew at home…"

Needs must, John supposed.

"All right. But we still need milk."

Sherlock beamed at him before heading in the general direction of the dairy products. John followed him with a smile.

"So, a cable mark…?" He inquired, not really thinking about it.

And regretted it almost as soon as he'd said it. Sherlock was all too happy to oblige. Geniuses did live for their audience after all...


End file.
